Hellfire
by Aurora-Borealis Coyote
Summary: When nobody but Leto and hell watch her, she feels her voice almost come back, enough so she can almost scream.


**What exactly was Roze's life with Dante like? We know she was drugged by her, and that she shared a house with the Homunculi, but not that much else. This is a little story I wrote going into what she was really feeling, because after all that had happened to her, it wouldn't have been pretty…**

**Warnings: A lot of religious content. Heavily implied masturbation. Roze being drugged. General disturbingness.**

The fire she can almost feel, dull and so quick, this fire, it licks outwards from her neon-flashing hair and around spiraling in great torrents from the folds of her dress. She spins around the cold marble floor until the world is mixed up into oblivion and her eyes cannot tell up from down or left from right.

This fire, inside her throat when the Lady gives her the thick wines; behind her eyes when she can see smoke in front of them, on her fingers deep in the belly of night when she wants to feel the touch of love, make her feel something strong within her own control. This fire feels like the sun. Not quite. Leto does bring this fire, but something else does too.

As she dances she feels something from her scream raw, and she closes her eyes, giving into her feet which move like they're hot-she thinks they are- and her feet take her faster, bringing her to a trance of movement.

Maybe if she moves fast enough, she will rid herself of the icy whispers permeating her dreams, whispers from places deep within the manor she does not want to know about, they are in forms of strange noises and word exchanges, strange looking people in doorways or backs of rooms, momentarily appearing and saying nothing. She moves fast and her hair thrashes flies and splays itself horizontally, she flings her eyes to the direction of the ceiling, maybe one hundred feet upwards, or maybe high enough to reach the sun.

The burning sun that will rise like the fire from hell, that is where it must be from, in her where she can't quite reach, she knows it will soon have to rise inside of her. The burning sun will burn itself.

There are things inside of her that she needs to have gone. If she makes it so that she is heard and seen and known by every ray of Leto's sun, she may have them cleansed from her once and for all.

She thinks she can make out a full moon from what she thinks is the outside of a window, high up where the sun watches her dance from its nighttime hiding place. She thinks she can make it out, but a distant part of her realizes it could just be her dilated, drug-hazed eyes working its smoke and mirrors for her.

The only time she can truly move anymore is during the dancing. All day, smoke from within her blood quakes her skin as she watches but does not quite understand what unfolds before her.

But when she dances in the night, when nobody but Leto and hell watch her, she feels her voice almost come back, enough so she can close her eyes and see what the illusion-making surroundings can never free her of, enough so she can throw back her head to the unreachable-like-the-sun ceiling, and open her mouth, claw at her hair dancing like a demon's coattails, get out a noise from her throat that can barely be heard. But when she does, she hears and feels the screams of one encircle her, for just one moment she is in the space between pleasure and pain, pleasure that kindles underneath her silk bodice and pain that seems to come straight from Leto.

She spirals faster and faster. As she looks to the ceiling, her eyes show her deep walks of an unraveling inferno, from Leto and hell.

If it is Leto bringing her these fires in and on and around her, she will await them devouring her and bringing her into the sun.

But she knows where they come from, the hell on and around her, but mostly inside her. And she will dance in its smoke and mirrors and blazes until they have made her a part of them for the rest of their burning time, made her another lost flame with a scorched mouth, until she is, or, she thinks, maybe she always was, another twisting and condemned hellfire.


End file.
